


It is not so dreadful here.

by bellarose_riddle



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 09:09:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellarose_riddle/pseuds/bellarose_riddle
Summary: In her father's house, she had been a blooming flower, with petals of red and a past full of tragedy; in her captor's home, she had learnt to grow thorns of steel, meant to cut through anyone who dared harm her; in her new home, she finds that she needs to be a flower no longer, and turns her thorns into claws.Or: Vassa is taken to Kattegat after Björn Ironside’s raid on the Mediterranean and discovers she has several things in common with the youngest son of King Ragnar Lothbrok.





	1. Call me weak

**Author's Note:**

> see: https://www.pinterest.es/ladyofwinterfell/not-so-dreadful-here/

I do not miss the sun or the silk or the palaces riches. I had been a prisoner there, after all, and while here I wasn’t entirely free, these northmen don’t mind me going and coming as I please.

And the only thing I’d had to do had been to betray my people. Or that’s what Björn Ironside thinks, that you had lead him and his army to the secret harem and the rooms full of jewels and gold out of fear, that it hadn’t been until later that you had stop fearing him and his men.

In exchange for my help, and even if we had not been able to understand one another, he had made sure his men did not bother me, and had given me a place in his household upon his return to Kattegat. Granted, I spent most of my time doing chores and helping Torvi take care of the children, but that was better than waiting at the palace for my captors to come for me, never knowing if my father had agreed to their terms or if he had given up on me and left me on my own.

In the end, I had not cared, and when a chance to get out had come literally knocking down my door I had taken it.

After, when I had seen the women from the harem being taken away to be sold, I had not dared tell them the truth about my family, to tell them that I did not belong in the south but in the north, in Bizcay, afraid they’d see a chance of trading me for something more profitable than an underfed and tired girl.

“You can leave,” Torvi tells me and I look up at her from where I sit at her table.

I have been pretending for weeks, not that they noticed. Björn is busy summoning earls and kings from all over their world to avenge his father and Torvi is kind and sweet enough not to see that I now understand most of what they say. It has been easy to learn, once I put my mind to it.

So I pretended to only understand some words or sentences.

“Sure?” I reply. Of course, the question should have been _Are you sure?_ but that is not what she expects of me.

She nods, taking her youngest son in her arms. “You have done enough work for a day.”

I nod back with a small smile, finish folding the furs I still have in my hands and walk out of the house. The air outside is cold, and I found once more that it reminds me of home. It is half of the reason I prefer this place to my previous residence.

Ignoring the people that fill the market of Kattegat, I make my way to the beach, and then up, up, up. I had found this place soon after arriving here and came every time I could. From there, sitting on a rock, I can see the sea and the beach, and the city bellow seems so small and unimportant, the people in it looking like busy ants, that I forget this is not truly home. And care a little less about not going to ever see my home again.

Sitting there, I hear him before I see him, the sound of the grass as he crawls on it unmistakable by now, but I don’t turn to him.

The first time I had seen Ivar Ragnarsson had been upon returning with his brothers and their crew, as he plotted to kill their queen − who I had later learned was Björn Ironside’s mother −for the murder of his mother.

The next time had been here.

Apparently I had somehow found a spot to think and be on my own that happened to be his place too, but he hadn’t seemed bothered by it. In fact, he had started talking and talking and talking. I didn’t understand a word he said at first, and knew that was surely why he was telling me whatever it was that he was telling me, but as the weeks went by and I learnt their language and customs and strange accents, his stories started to make sense, and I realized he was telling me of Aslaug, his mother, and Ragnar, his father. Of how he was still adamant in killing Lagertha and of how he would kill his oldest brother too if he had to in order to achieve his ends. Somehow, it had seemed just fair. Why shouldn’t a son avenge his mother when a whole country was uniting to avenge Ragnar Lothbrok?

Ivar sits next to me and I wait for him to start complaining about his brothers, about their allies, or about whatever it was that has angered him today. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, in silence, staring at the sea. After a moment, I look at him, confused.

As if my stare burns him, he turns, his blue eyes scanning my face, his jaw clenched. “What?”

I just frown at him. Around his blue irises his eyes are red, as if he had been crying. And Iwonder…My hand rises before I can stop it and I’m not sure if I mean to touch his cheek or his neck or his jaw before his own hand snaps up and grabs my wrist.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, and I pull my hand out of his grip, unable to stop my eyes from rolling as I look away from him again.

He snorts. “My brothers say you are daft. Poor little daft girl.” He makes a pout. “She works, she smiles, she eats but in all these months she has not been able to learn anything from us.” He is close now, his breath caressing my earlobe as he leans in to whisper, “Hvitserk keeps saying he’s going to fuck you one day and then the only thing you will be able to say will be his name.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, because if I laugh he will know I understand. And he will know I understood every word he uttered these past weeks, every threat about bringing war upon Lagertha and ripping her apart.

After several heartbeats in which I can feel his stare burning against my skin, Ivar pulls away and I found myself missing…what exactly? I push the thought away as he speaks again.

“So you are daft.” He still doesn’t sound convinced. “Of course. You would have already told Björn about me and my plans if you weren’t.”

Then he stops talking and silence reigns around us once more. I do my best not to stare at him for a while, but then I just can’t stop my eyes from wandering.

Once again, Ivar’s staring at the sea but, I notice with worry, his lower lip is trembling, his hands pressed together with bone snapping strength. For a moment I can’t decide if he’s sad or angry, but then again, maybe he’s both of those things. And both of those feelings are something I know all too well.

Slowly, I put my hand on top of his and wait for him to push me away but when Ivar turns to look at me again there’s no anger in his face but something I can’t quite decipher. And then he’s telling me stories about his Gods, as if he hadn’t looked miserable a moment before.

It is not until I have to stand to leave that I notice my hand had been on his the whole time. Surprisingly, instead of staying behind, Ivar goes down the hill with me, crawling at my side.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a feast that night on the Great Hall, just like every night since the allies of the Sons of Ragnar started to arrive. Kattegat is great trading center and it is expected of its ruler after all to be able to entertain its guests.

As always, I sit with Torvi, drinking with her and enjoying the food, doing my best to ignore the passing glances between Björn and his mother’s lover Astrid. I don’t know if Torvi or Lagertha are aware of them and I wouldn’t be stupid enough to tell them about it but still, I wonder. Because these people are strange and maybe Torvi does know, maybe so does Lagertha, maybe they don’t care.

I am already half drunk when Hvitserk sits next to me. Last time I’d checked, he was sitting with Ubbe, Sigurd and Ivar at the opposite end of the table, laughing and drinking. Now, his lips are dangerously close to my neck.

“Leave her be,” Björn commands him from where he sits next to Torvi, but his brother dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t bother us, brother, we are talking.”

“Hvitserk,” Ubbe calls too, but his brother’s lips are already grazing my cheek. And my hand moves before I can stop it, a white-hot rage that I had not felt in a long time filling me at once.

I grab the back of his neck before he can react and push his head down against the table. He complains and groans and I notice I have used too much strength, that my nails are digging into the flesh of his neck. A little more pressure and I could draw blood.

His brothers roar with laughter as I take a deep breath and let him go and Ubbe moves forward to take him away, offering him another drink as he curses and insults me.

“Impressive,” Torvi grins next to me and I smile as an answer, even as I do my best to go back to being nothing but the stupid girl serving at Ironside’s house. Because the attention I might draw otherwise would be so not welcomed.

At the other side of the table, Ivar’s ice-cold eyes find mine and he tilts his head, eyebrows rising, as if to remind me that he had warned me, that he had been right when telling me about his brother’s intentions. And even if I’m supposed to not have understood what he had been telling me that morning, I smile at him before taking a sip of my drink.

I ignore everyone after that, making my way through the crowd, watching as the men and women drink and make bets and laugh. Listening as the earls and the allies of the Ragnarssons whisper and speak of things too dangerous to express out loud.

 _Poor daft girl_ , Ivar had called me. Poor daft girl all of them must think.

But I don’t need their pity.

 

* * *

 

 

The following day my head is spinning and the cries of Torvi and Björn’s youngest do not help at all. It’s hard to get up but I manage and I slip into one of the dresses Torvi had given me as quick as I can.

When I had first arrived at Kattegat, her dresses had been too big for me, because I had been in such bad shape after spending months locked up without being able to eat properly or drink enough water or exercise and I felt, and looked, more like a corpse than an actual human being. Now, even if we had to cut the hem of the dresses because she is taller than I am, most of them fit me.

I don’t bother to braid my hair before I walk towards Torvi as she tries and fails to sooth her child.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. He is in a mood this morning.”

Without paying much attention to her apology I place a hand on the baby’s forehead. He doesn’t have a fever but I know he is hurting for the way he wails. Knowing Torvi’s gaze follows my every move I am fast to put a kettle of water on the water and start cutting and crushing herbs. When the water is ready I use the tea to make a tea.

“For the baby,” I tell her as she inspects my work.

“You are a healer,” she says then.

It is not the word I’d use, it is not the one my mother taught me, and it is not the one I’d been always called by, but I nod anyway, and we wait in silence for the water to cool a little so the child might drink it. It still takes a while for the baby to relax even after he has drank the tea, but then he’s giggling at the faces her mother makes and smiles up at me.

“What was wrong with him?”

I rub her son’s belly and she understands. And then we start the routine.

If Torvi notices that I am quicker finishing my tasks than I usually am, she does not say anything about it, but soon I’m walking out of the door, a dark cloak thrown over my dress. My head is still spinning slightly but the memories of last night are still fresh in my mind.

Taking a deep breath as I reach the forge I can’t help but notice that this is the first time I’ve actually gone looking for Ivar. Every other time he has found me, because who is better to keep secrets than a girl who doesn’t understand a word you are saying? How wrong he had been.

He’s perched on a stool, sharpening his axe, and doesn’t look at me as I approach. The smith, not far from him, stares at me funnily but says nothing as I move a chair and sit next to Ivar. Noticing me at last, his bright blue eyes filled with confusion, he opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.

“I can help you,” I say and I want to smile at myself when I see the shock that dances on his features. He softens somehow, before turning angry, and not for the first time I think he’s beautiful.

And then the hand that’s not holding the axe is on my neck bringing me closer to him and squishing ever so slightly. I raise an eyebrow at him. Predictable.

“Not as daft as they say, huh?”

I give him a crooked grin. “But you already knew that, didn’t you, Ivar?”

He lets go of me. “How can you help me?”

I lean closer to him, not at all worried by his sudden change of mood. I have already seen him go from teary to angry in a second and if he thinks that’s going to scare me he should think again. There are worse things in life than a man throwing childish temper tantrums.

“There is a plot to kill Lagertha,” I whisper. Ivar’s eyes widen in surprise. “It is to be set in motion by an ally of King Harald once you sail to England to avenge your father.”

“How does that help me?”

I shrug. “I thought you’d like to know. Her death, after all, belongs to you. Does it not?”

Ivar still doesn’t seem convinced. And why would he be? I have been lying to him for weeks while he told me things about his family that I’m sure he hadn’t told anyone else.

“It does,” he agrees. “That is why I know this plot will fail. Lagertha will live and one day the gods will help me kill her.”

“I will not tell Björn what I know.”

The smith moves on the back of the forge and for a moment I fear he might come closer, because if he does and hears me speaking their tongue…

“Why not? His mother is queen, he is respected. Why would you help a cripple and not a man who killed a bear with his bare hands?”

My dark eyes meet his again and I shake my head. _Childish_ , I want to spat at him.

“You are smarter than that.” And then I stand to leave only to be stopped when Ivar’s hand closes around my wrist, pulling me back.

“What is your name?”

No one had asked that before. Not Björn, not Torvi, not anyone. Even when they had told me their names, somehow they thought I’d be too stupid to offer them mine.

“Vassa,” I mutter.

Ivar lets go of my hand, but his blue eyes resemble iron still as he commands. “Sit down again, Vassa. Let us talk.”

It has been so long since I heard someone say my name, so long since I actually had a conversation with anyone that cared to hear what I had to say, that I do as he asks. And he laughs, shaking his head.

 


	2. Now watch me rise

On the following days, I start speaking with Torvi. Not as much as I had spoken with Ivar, of course, because I still don’t want her, or Björn, to know I actually understand everything they say. Because if they think I’m stupid they will keep talking about boats and warriors and supplies and the Queen’s plans around me.

She’s surprised at first, of course. But does it not make sense, that the poor foreign girl would do her best to learn their language? She is living with them after all, and has nowhere to go. I know she means good, I really do, and I quite like her, but a part of me hates that she can’t see through the lies. Then again, maybe I’m just a good liar.

I keep meeting Ivar, both at the forge and at the cliff edge overlooking the beach and the harbour, and I’m quite sure he’s starting to trust me because there’s something in his bright blue eyes that hadn’t been there a week ago. Then again, maybe my mind is playing tricks with me, and maybe he’s a good liar too.

It’s sitting by the cliff one day that I see it, and all but run to the edge to get a better view, cold sweet running down my back. For a moment I think my eyes are fooling me, but they are not.

I jump when I feel a hand on the back of my thigh and Ivar is quick to grab my hand and push me down to the grass to make sure I don’t fall off the edge. He’s looking at me like someone might look at a stupid and misbehaving child, but I’m too stunned to care.

“What is it now?” His eyes leave mine to focus on the ships arriving at Kattegat.

“I know that ship,” I manage to explain, even if I’m sure the thundering noise of my heart must not have allowed him to hear.

The banner of the ship was unmistakable, as were the banners of the other six ships following it. But it has been years since I last saw it, since I last allowed myself to think of it. A part of me always wished they had perished, always thought that maybe the sea had been wise and hungry enough to swallow them whole and offer them no mercy. Apparently, I hadn’t been that lucky.

“I don’t,” Ivar replies. I had forgotten about him for a moment, even as his fingers remain closed tightly around my wrist. “They are not Viking.”

“No they are not.”

He’s staring at me, I know it, but my eyes are still fixed on the beach. His hold tightens even further as he tries, and success, to win my attention back.

“What are they then?” and that’s exasperation in his voice. Pure and true. Because I’m truly acting stupid.

“Mercenaries,” I answer. “Their only loyalty is to gold and they don’t care who they betray to get it. They probably think they can strike some kind of deal with Lagertha.”

His hold on my wrist stops and even as the skin burns I don’t make any move to sooth it, because I’m waiting for him to rant about how Viking need no mercenaries to help them and how Lagertha would be an idiot if she accepted their help.

Instead, he surprises me by saying, “How do you know them?”

There’s no mock in his voice and the exasperated tone is gone, replaced by what I gather is genuine interest. And his face softens somehow, making me look away again, because I know I’m not going to focus on anything if I keep staring at his pretty face.

I bite my lip, and that hesitance is enough to make him frown, tilting his head and making a pout. “You don’t trust the cripple, huh? Fine, don’t trust the cripple.” There’s anger lacing his words and I wonder how he does that. How he jumps from one face to another, unbothered and untroubled, how it is so easy for him to hide and change his feelings at will so easily.

“You are the only one here I trust, idiot. So shut up and listen. I need your help.”

If the captain of that ship is who I think it is there is no way I’m letting him leave Kattegat. Odin and all the other gods and goddesses could come down to try and stop me and still I wouldn’t stop. Because the bastard owes me and there’s only one way for him to repay his debt.

I can see the corner of Ivar’s lips twitch, as if he were containing a smile.

“What do you need, Vassa?” he all but purrs and for a moment I forget about the ships and the captain and everything and the answer I want to give him…The answer I want to give him is inappropriate to say the least.

So I tell him what I need as quick as I can, my eyes darting between his cold blue ones and the men that were already coming down from the ships. When I’m done he crawls closer to me on the grass, his face inches away from mine, a wicked smirk on his lips.

“What will you do with those men?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Because I’m still trying to decide, weighing every option with care.  “And then I’ll tell you what happened if you are still interested.”

Ivar chuckles humorously and moves away again wetting his lower lip with his tongue. A part of me wants to slap him for no knowing how handsome he looks doing that. Another part wants to do several other things.

“You have a deal.” He agrees.

I wait until he’s gone and then run into the forest and begin my work.

 

* * *

 

 

It is surprisingly easy for Ivar to find out when the Captain will be meeting Lagertha and, even if he looks like he really doesn’t enjoy being ordered around, there’s a light of amusement in his eyes, an edge, as if he’s waiting eagerly to see what it is that I’m going to do, that reminds me I should be excited too.

But I’m not. I’m worried. Worried that I might fail.

I know the man, though, and I’ve already decided how to end him. Come dark, it shouldn’t be a difficult task to achieve, even if it’ll  deprive me of sleep, but I got used to that back at the Muslim palace.

So I wait until everyone’s sleeping and sneak out of the house and to the beach, already dreading the cold waters of the sea.

 

* * *

 

 

Queen Lagertha summons the captain and his crew the next morning and I make sure Torvi takes me with her to the Great Hall. I’m there only to watch from the sides and be silent, of course, much like Ubbe’s bride-to-be, but anything else would spoil the surprise. So I seat in the shadows with Margrethe and watch. And wait.

Much to my surprise, all of Ragnar’s sons are present for the meeting, as if the Queen wanted their advice in the matter, which was a ridiculous notion. She was Queen and ultimately she would do whatever in earth she wanted to.

As much as I have tried to ready myself, I find myself shaking when they walk in. The Captain comes first, followed by two of his men while some others remain outside the hall. He’s older than the last time I saw him, silver strokes decorating his hair and lines of age on his face. But I remember that smile and those eyes and my blood boils as he stops before Lagertha’s throne and introduces himself. A part of me wants nothing but to grab one of Hvitserk’s axes, seeing as he is the one closer to where I’m sitting, and drive it throw the man’s skull.

Patience’s never been my strong suit.

I don’t follow the trail of the conversation, but I don’t have to. Björn has already told Torvi what his mother intends. Lagertha needs more ships, since all of those they have will be leaving for England soon enough, rending her somehow defenseless and unable to keep on trading. Moreover, she needs more ships to carry all the warriors that are flocking to Kattegat to the West to avenge Ragnar. But she does not need the mercenaries and she does not want them. In that, at least, the Queen and I can agree.

It takes longer than I expected for the poison to strike, but then one of the Captain’s guards raises his hand to his face, fingers stopping at the blood coming out of his nose. The conversation halts as the man tries and fails to speak, more blood coming out of his mouth. And then he falls forward and drops to the floor. Dead.

The second guard is quick to follow.

As expected, the Captain draws his sword, demanding answers out of Lagertha, who does not have them. Both Astrid and Torvi move closer to the Queen, as if to shield her if the man comes forward, and next to me Margrethe stirs, uneasy.

“What kind of witchcraft is this?” he asks, his accent think and even worse than mine is, and I stop thinking straight.

“So many years and you still don’t understand.” I stand and walk out of the shadows but remain out of his reach, at the other side of the fire, even as I feel all the eyes in the room turn to me. Margrethe stands too and moves closer to Hvitserk, visibly scared now.

The Captain stares and stares and stares and then his eyes widen. “The Witch Queen’s wailing daughter. The one I didn’t manage to catch.”

“Catch? What am I, a fish?”

There’s a laugh and it takes a second for me to notice it was Ubbe’s. I frown. I had not meant to be amusing.

“Last time I saw you, witch, you were diving into the water with your damned brother. So maybe you are.”

Lagertha clears her throat to regain our attention before I can answer and I curl my hands into fists, my nails digging into my flesh with enough strength to draw blood.

“Is this true?” the Queen asks. “Did you kill these men with magic?”

I snort.

“You mean, am I a witch? No. I’m not. Witches are not real, that’s just the name men give to powerful women they can neither understand nor control.”

The memory is still bright in my mind; how they would curse my mother as a witch with the same fervor her people would hail her as queen. With the same passion my father would call her his truest love.

Lost in thought, it takes me a moment to notice a shadow cross Lagertha’s beautiful face, and then I remember that she had called Queen Aslaug a witch and killed her for it, saying she had bewitched her husband. Did she believe my words had been meant to hurt her, to challenge her?

For a moment my eyes dart to the left, where Ubbe has his axe out and looks ready to attack whoever comes close and Ivar sits listening to all of us bicker. Before I can meet his eyes to see if he also thinks I was defending his mother, the man before me speaks again.

“Enough.” The Captain spats and swings his sword. “You have killed my men, now I will kill you, little witch. And then maybe I will send your father what is left of your body as I sent him what was left of your mother.”

That memory lingers too, and I can still smell the rotting flesh of my mother’s butchered corpse. He had sent her back in a box to us, cut in pieces.

“I have killed you also.” I fear for a moment my voice will break but it doesn’t and I blink away the tears of rage forming in my eyes, determined not to cry in front of this man, or in front of these people. “You have been a dead man walking from the moment you climbed out of your ship this morning.”

He laughs but the sound is hollow and for a moment I see in his eyes that he fears I speak the truth. A moment later I see the uneasiness in them.

“You lie.”

“I don’t. And you know it.” I shrug. “I poisoned your wine yesterday night. I knew you wouldn’t drink anything from Kattegat, it is not in your habit, and I knew you wouldn’t drink the mead your crew enjoyed.”

There’s actual panic in his face now and it makes me happier than I thought it would. The Captain gives a step forward, sword raised as if he might charge against me, but then he stops and the sword falls and he looks at his own hand in disbelief. When he falls on his knees, unable to move, he calls for the men he’s left outside. Has he not figured out they are dead already?

“I told you, monster, they are dead.”

His skin’s turned ashen and he’s already having trouble breathing. When he falls to his side, he manages to spat out, “Witch.”

And then he’s clawing at his neck as air leaves him, trying to breathe, but I know it’s futile. I’ve done my part quite well and the poison is killing him from the inside out, choking him. Slowly.

Then he’s gone and I close my eyes for a moment.

_Mother. Sister._

I hope they are watching. They deserve to know the man who raped and tortured and butchered them is gone.

When I open my eyes, Lagertha is standing.

“Your shield maidens should get to work and grab the bodies from the streets or people will start saying some kind of curse has befallen Kattegat.”

She looks at me with distrust but nods at Astrid, who goes to the back room to deliver the orders. At her side, Torvi’s eyes find mine, and there’s such surprise in them. Still, I see the shadow of a smile dancing in her lips.

“Now you have the ships you needed,” I tell the Queen but she says nothing.

“She’s right.” Björn nods but I don’t take my eyes from his mother.

Lagertha shares a look with her son before staring back at me. “And you have your revenge.”

Despite myself, I smile. And then I’m laughing and I find it’s hard to stop.

 

* * *

 

 

I have to admit I’ve been waiting for him all day, for I’d promised him a story, a memory, for his help. But I have not seen him since Torvi lead me away from the Great Hall.

Her hand had been strong and stead as it closed around my upper arm, escorting me outside and to her home. And then she had made me sit and she had sat in front of me.

“You said you were a healer,” she’d said, daring me to deny her.

“I am. As was my mother.”

“And yet you killed that man. You killed all of his crew.”

“So I’m a healer and a killer.”

Torvi had nodded and taken my hand, her blue eyes unyielding as ever, and yet there was understanding in them.

“This is your home now.” There was kindness in her voice and I knew at once she wanted be to feel like home. The problem is I no longer know how that feels. “Don’t lie to me again.”

“I won’t.” I’d promised her. And it had been a lie of course; because that’s not something I can promise.

So as soon as she’d left me alone and after a talk with Björn who warned me to _never_ do something like that again without telling him first, as if he owned me, I’d left and gone for the cliff. For the peace and quiet of it, I told myself.

And yet I smile when I hear him approach. I truly am daft.

“So you killed them,” Ivar says when he sits next to me, and even if I’m on my back on the grass, eyes closed, I know he’s smiling.

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

He doesn’t answer and I open my eyes, only to find his ocean-blue ones inches away, his face so close that when he lets out a breath I can feel it against my skin.

“You are so tiny. I didn’t think you’d have the nerve.”

“Who knows, maybe I’ll poison you too.”

Ivar shakes his head, deep in thought. “Then you’d have no one to talk to, stupid girl.”

_Fair enough_.

“He killed your mother?” His voice is but a whisper as he lies next to me on the grass, close enough that I can still hear him but not close enough to touch. And there’s a softness in his voice…I’m sure he’s thinking of his own mother, and I wonder how long it’ll take him to turn that pain into rage.

“He did,” I answer. “My father paid him to take my mother, my siblings and I safely back home.” I start and then explain. “He’s a merchant, my father, but his ships were being targeted and he thought I’d be better to let us sail under a banner no one would suspect.”

Ivar nods.

“But he betrayed his deal with my father. He killed our men and then came for us. My brother saved me but our sister and mother were left behind. The Captain sent what was left of my mother to us in a box months later.”

“Your sister?”

“Died the day Mother was taken.”

He moves to lie on his side, eyes hard, face closed off again. “How did you end up where my brothers found you?”

Good question. I’d asked myself the same for months trapped in that place.

“The muslims wanted to use me to strike a deal with my father.” And yet I had no idea how they had managed to find out where I was or how many men they’d need to subdue my soldiers.

It didn’t matter now.

“He sounds like a powerful man.” I ignore the mock in his words as best I can.

“His friends call him King of Merchants.”

Ivar’s laugh is unexpected and I frown at him, finding that it’s not entirely unwelcomed.

“Look at us now, huh? A cripple and a princess.”

“I’m no princess,” I reply. My father was no king and my mother’s title had always been more of a formality. She had not been a queen like Lagertha, never had worn a crown and never had sat on a throne. “But are you not a prince, son of King Ragnar?”

Ivar lies back down on his back and refuses to look at me. A laugh escapes my lips.

“Ivar−”

“Shut up.”

Groaning, I do. Let him see he’s not the only one who can get angry and moody. After a while in silence though, he seems to get angrier, and sits on the grass, looking down at me.

“Tell me how you did it.” I don’t even turn to him. “ _Vassa_.”

“Ivar.” It’s my only answer.

I see him take a deep breath and can almost hear his mind working and turning and wondering if throttling me would be worth the effort.

“Please, tell me how you did it.” This time his voice is calmer, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it that makes me shiver.

So I sit next to him and start talking.


	3. So it begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the order of some events for the plot's sake. Hope you don't mind :)

“That would look beautiful on you,” he says, playing with a dress that I hadn’t even bothered to look at.

I ignore him.

“What? You don’t agree?”

“I’m buying clothes for the boys, Hvitserk, not for me.”

He rolls his bright blue eyes at me but I just ignore him as I’ve been doing all morning. Torvi had sent me to the market to by some new clothes for her second son and I’ve been so eager to get away from the Great Hall, where Björn and his family spent most of their time now that preparations for going to England were almost than, that I had all but rushed out to the street. And it was just my luck that Hvitserk was coming in at the moment I was leaving and had decided to accompany me. To make sure you don’t get in trouble, he had said, knowing quite well that _he_ was trouble.

“Boring,” he complains, making a pout and I finally turn to him.

“If I’m so boring then why are you following me around like a lapdog?”

I’ve learnt to accept his presence in the last weeks and I have made it clear that, while I will not murder him in his sleep just for having been born dumb, as I’d made sure to tell him, much to Sigurd’s amusement, the only son of Queen Aslaug that I actually have come to like is Ubbe. And Ivar, of course, but I’ve liked Ivar for a while now.

If I were smarter, I would admit that _like_ doesn’t actually define the myriads of feelings that the youngest son of Ragnar makes me feel. Then again, I wouldn’t be admitting it to him.

“I think you are interesting.”

I scoff, pay for the clothes, gather them in my arms and walk away. Behind me, I hear Hvitserk curse. When he catches up with me, as I head to the house, I say, “So you want to get to know me?”

“Yes! It was about time you understood.”

I stop to look at him, my dark eyes finding his gaze. I don’t realize I’m gritting my teeth until he makes a face. “Well,” I tell him, “then you can stop treating me like I’m a piece of meat you are going to fuck and start treating me like a person.”

It truly surprises me when he laughs. He sounds like a child even if he must be around my age. Then he nods, still smiling.

“Look how many words the little hellcat knows now.” He nods. “Agreed. But you are wrong. I don’t think women are pieces of meat and I quite like to make them happy.”

I don’t bother to answer him.

 

* * *

 

 

“I have something for you.”

The heat in the forge is almost unbearable and I’m busy tying my hair back in a braid when Ivar’s voice beckons me to him from the other side of the work table.

He’s been hunched over something for the past several hours, working, and while I’m certain he’s been listening to everything I’ve been telling him about my talk with Hvitserk that morning and about how Torvi insisted in having a new dress made for me for Ubbe’s upcoming wedding (I could have sworn I’d seen him frown in anger at that, though I’m not sure why he would), he hasn’t uttered a single word until now.

“For me?”

Surprisingly, he smiles, and what would have been a sweet smile in anyone else seems wicked in him. His lips have a cruelty to them that I still can’t quite understand. Of course I know the smart thing would be to stay where I am and not approach him, because nothing good can come from listening to this man who looks at me as if I were to be his next meal. Then again…

I silently thank the heat I was cursing moments before for making sure my blush is not that obvious and move to sit next to Ivar.

“What is it?” When he gives it to me, I frown. “A bracelet?” It’s beautiful, truly, but if I were honest I’d admit I’d been expecting a dagger. Or at least something useful.

“No one will think you are a slave again if you wear it.”

The moment the words leave his mouth I know what he means, and suddenly the gift does not appeal as much nor does it look as lovely.

There had been an incident some days before at the Great Hall during a feast with a couple of outsiders that had come to join the sons of Ragnar and had tried to drag me out of the place by force when I’d told them to fuck off. But we are going to have fun they had said. They had not looked happy, though, with my idea of fun after I punched one of them and broke his noise and kicked the other one to the floor.

What still makes my blood boil is that I know deep inside it was thanks to Ubbe’s intervention that they had left me alone.

“She’s part of Björn Ironside’s household and I will not see you molesting her again.” The men had apologized (to him) and wisely left.

And as much as I know Ubbe had only meant well, I’m still angry at him. So for Ivar to give me this…

He must have read something on my face because suddenly his smile is gone and his features close again. Wall after wall after wall I see him disappear behind his fortress of anger. The one I know he uses when he’s afraid of showing too much of himself.

“If you do not like it, you do not have to take it.”

I move my right hand away from his reach so he can’t take the bracelet back and his fingers close around my other wrist, making me flinch. It is almost amusing how I can sometimes forget that he could probably crush my skull with ease if he wished to.

“I did not say I didn’t like it, did I?”

“But your face…”

“I like it, you idiot. It’s beautiful. But what it means angers me. It angers me that I need to wear someone else’s mark to prove I’m free.”

That does it. His hold softens, but when I’m certain we can drop the subject and move on, one his fingers starts tracing the skin on my wrist and I freeze. It is but a moment, and then I’m moving my hand away, but it somehow makes my body shake.

“Don’t do that again,” I warn him, voice sharp, dark and steady.

“You were chained.”

There’s a storm raging in his blue eyes when they meet my dark ones that makes me wonder if there are always clouds shadowing him. If he doesn’t know how to sail through calm waters and soft tides.

“So what if I was.”

“Was it my brothers?” Caution laces his words for once, as if he fears to know the answer, but he relaxes when I shake my head.

“My captors in Algeciras.”

I don’t dare to raise my voice when I say it, dreading the mere mention of it would bring me back there, almost feeling the cold bite of golden chains against my skin and the cold breath of death on the back of my neck. I’d prayed to the Mother every single day to get my out of there, I’d sworn to her I didn’t care how she did it, I just wanted to get out. In the end, Björn had appeared, but I still wasn’t sure if it had been the Mother or the Viking gods who have saved me. Maybe my prayers had gone unanswered, and it was Odin who had made sure I was freed.

Looking away from Ivar again, I focus myself on placing the bracelet over the scar he had just caressed.

“Thank you.” He blinks twice before registering my words. “I do like it.”

“But you hate those men who bothered you.” There’s a question behind those words somehow.

“Of course.” I shrug, not being able to stare at the pity that now dances on his pretty face any longer.

 

* * *

 

 

When Torvi wakes me up the next morning I forget for a moment why I’m supposed to get ready and almost ask her why she’s there. Then I remember the wedding.

Neither she nor Björn have been staying at their home as of late, both spending more and more time with Lagertha, but it’s been good having the house for myself, even if I’ve had to look after the kids for longer than usual.

“Let me do your braids,” she demands when I’m done dressing.

“What? No!”

But she’s already tugging at my hair and there’s no way I can get away without a fight. And I’m not in the mood to ruin the beautiful dress she had made for me, so I busy myself playing with the blue fabric while she pushes my dark locks away from my face and combs them back.

“I don’t really know how your weddings are,” I remind her.

“You should learn then.” I know she’s smiling even if I can’t see her. “Maybe the next wedding will be yours.”

Torvi joins me when I laugh and proceeds to line my eyes with kohl once she’s done with my hair.

“Why do you women always take so long to get ready?” I know Björn’s standing next to the door but I can’t turn to him as Torvi finishes working on my face.

His lover groans at him and roll her eyes.

“Why are men always so stupid?” she whispers to me and even if I know she does not expect and answer I find myself saying, “They cannot help themselves.”

We share a smile and she helps me to get up.

“Good morning, _Järnsida.”_

“You look as happy to attend this wedding as I am,” he half smiles now that Torvi is busy.

I frown at him. While Björn is usually good company, I know quite well he does not trust me, he never has, and from the moment I met him I’ve found myself having to answer that mistrust with caution and half-truths, which of course does not mean he is not nice to talk to. Besides, I’m certain it’s thanks to him that Lagertha has not pushed to talk to me after the little poison game I played behind her back, for which I’m glad, as I want nothing to do with the current Queen of Kattegat.

“It is your brother’s wedding.”

He makes a pout and shrugs, and I’m about to tell him he has no shame and no respect for family when he catches my arm, staring at my bracelet. “You did not have this before. It is nicely crafted.”

“I know.”

And there it is again, that light in his eyes that tells me he’s trying to read me as if I were a book, to understand what it is that I’m not telling him, to determinate if it means a threat or it is harmless. I give him my best smile and then Torvi comes back and we leave the house.

As we walk down the market place it becomes apparent that something has happened.

People are gathering next to the Great Hall and Lagertha’s shield maidens have closed the place and stand guard before it.

“What is it?” Torvi asks and Björn sighs.

“With so many of our own here to avenge my father it was just a matter of time for them to get into an argument and kill someone,” he explains.

It isn’t until we walk near the place that we see what he means. There are two bodies on the cold ground, bloodied and battered. Their heads lay not far from them and are in no better shape.

“Is your mother alright? Does she need us?” Torvi asks and grabs my arm to get me to stay close to her when I try to give a step forward.

“Mother is fine; this had nothing to do with her.”

We walk away and they start talking of something else, but I’m listening no longer, mind racing and heart pounding. Somewhere, deep inside, I want to laugh, but I don’t. Still, I can’t help but smile.

Björn’s brothers are already at the clearing when we arrive, and the boat builder’s wife, Helga, is quick to come and greet us with a wide smile. Even though I return the gesture, I do not linger. There is something in that woman, some sadness deep in her kind and warm heart, which scares me more than anything else I’d seen. When I greet her husband, he looks as if he too can see the dark wings surrounding his wife. As if he too is not sure of what to make of it and fears she’s too far gone to be saved.

“You look beautiful, hellcat,” Hvitserk smirks at me and, pretending to miss the look Ubbe’s bride-to-be throws his way, I smile back.

“You don’t.” Of course, he laughs. Everything is amusing to him, it seems.

Ubbe is obviously too busy and too nervous to pay us any mind so I don’t even try to approach him. Instead, I put my hand on the back of Ivar’s chair and look down at him, only to find he’s already looking at me.

“Hello, Vassa,” he all but purrs, nothing but innocence in him. I almost look away when he bites his lip and smiles. _Almost._

“Hello, Ivar.”

He’s still smiling when he looks away and as the wedding begins I know there’s no need to ask him if those two men had just suddenly found themselves with their heads missing. I’m sure he was the one to take them off. _But you hate those men who bothered you._ And yet, when the wedding is done and Ubbe and Hvitserk race each other (a stupid thing to do), I crouch to whisper in his ear, “Why?”

With no little amount of pleasure I find that it startles him, but he’s quick to recover and turns to look at me. “It is what friends do, is it not?”

I could kiss him. I want to, truly, but I can feel Björn watching, even as the others cheer for Ubbe and congratulate Margrethe, and I know it would be a stupid move, to pick sides in this cold, silent war brewing between the brothers, at least in the open, with so many eyes watching. And yet…

I take his hand in mine and hold it, fully aware of his surprise, and then use my hair as a curtain to cover my actions when I kiss his knuckles before standing, as if nothing had happened, and walking away to cheerfully hug Ubbe.


	4. Burning

During my childhood, I attended many festivals and celebrations with my mother’s people. They were always filled with music, and dances, and prayers to the Mother for giving us the earth, the rivers, the sky and our lives. Later, when I grew up and Father decided the place for his young daughter was his manor and not mother’s home in the mountains, the only celebrations I knew were long days of chanting to the Christian God and long hours standing before his image at the church.

But I had never known anything like this.

As Björn walks with me around Kattegat, explaining what everyone is doing and the kind of ceremony that will take place tonight, I feel like a child who just discovered something new and exciting.

“How do you choose the sacrifice?” I ask. “Does the person volunteer or will your mother pick someone to die?”

“It is a great honor to die in order to please the gods.” He doesn’t sound convinced, not by far, but I say nothing of it.

Walking in silence by his side, I’m aware he did not answer my question, and doesn’t look inclined to do so. Let Björn Ironside to his thoughts, right now I care little for them. Instead, I ask him to explain _how_ the ceremony works, and he does.

And yet, while he speaks, my mind can’t help but wander back to the previous night, when Ivar had crept into Björn’s home while everyone slept to wake me up in a hurry, saying there was something he wanted to show me. There had been such light inside his eyes I had not found it in myself to refuse.

The cold air had been enough to wake me up as we walked in the night and Ivar explained Floki had made something for him, so he would be able to fight to avenge his father in England. He had confessed when I had pushed to know more, that he still didn’t know what it was exactly that the boat builder had made.

I hadn’t dared ask him why had he decided to share the good news with him, and hadn’t said a thing when Floki had joined us and Ivar had climbed on his back and had allowed himself be carried.

It was amazing to see how Ivar’s whole demeanor changed in the presence of the boat builder. His features softened and relaxed, and there was a smile in his face that was never there when he addressed his brothers. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had been like that with his mother and father too, if it had been their deaths that had made him so guarded, so unable to trust. Then again, he had probably been like that since he was a child, using his mind to build a wall around his heart so no one could enter, to feel safe in a world that saw him as less than a person for how he had been born.

“Almost there,” Floki had promised when Ivar urged him to go faster.

“Patience, Ivar, might be a trait you’d like to learn, especially if you plan to lead the army one day.”

There had been amusement on his face when he raised an eyebrow at me, but behind it I saw approval. Because we have  never discussed what will happen once Ragnar is avenged and the Great Army his brothers and he have managed to build no longer has a purpose, but I know him well enough now to understand he has no desire to settle down and farm like his brother’s might do.

The glade was lit by the light of half a dozen torchers spread around it, a horse waiting nearby, and at the center of it, was a chariot.  Floki had laughed but I wasn’t sure if it was because of my face or because of Ivar’s, since both of us were unable to hide our surprise and excitement.

I was dimly aware of Ivar crawling away from us and toward the chariot, not saying a word, and the pride and genuine happiness that shown in Floki’s eyes as he watched him…there was no doubt in my mind of the love the boat builder bore the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok.

“Is it really for me?” Ivar was still on the floor, and I could have sworn his eyes were lined with silver, but couldn’t be sure from where I stood. Somehow, he looked afraid of going forward, or getting on the chariot, as if it were a dream and it would fade before his eyes.

“You get up there at once or I will,” I had told him, unable to hide a smile. Truth was I had wanted to do just that but knew it was not my place to do so. It was his moment to fly, not mine.

I can still hear his laugh and screams as the chariot raced through the forest.

“Vassa,” Björn calls, and I blink. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I am.” Of course I’m not.

Björn resumes his explanation and this time I do my best to pay attention, even as his youngest brother’s laugh resounds inside me, reminding me how deep in shit I am for feeling how I feel towards him.

“Do you know who those men over there are?” He frowns and shakes his head. “Then why are we looking at us?”

“They are looking at you, Vassa.”

He looks younger when he smiles like that, as if all the tension and worries left his body, but it doesn’t last much, and I don’t bother to acknowledge his statement. Instead, I decided to change topic.

“You said I reminded you of someone. You never told me who.”

His expression is closed off again when he turns to me as we head back to the house. But his eyes betray him. I can see in them that he wants to answer but doesn’t know if trusting me that much is worth it. Is unsure if I have ulterior motives for asking.

As I wait for him to decide, I refrain from pointing out that at least his youngest brother knows how to hide his feelings entirely when he doesn’t want them to show. Never mind that he has anger issues that make them clear.

If he wonders why it has taken me so long to ask, he doesn’t say it, even if the answer to that is easy. I had not known what he had actually said until this morning. Of course, when I had started learning their language, I had figured out what the words meant, but did not understand why he would have said such a thing to me at all. So I had asked Ivar for a translation, to make sure if I was right. When he had confirmed it, and ignoring his questioning look, I decided it was about time to bring it back.

“Why did you know my name when we had never met?” he asks in return, and I hold back a smile of my own. Not as stupid as one might think, this son of Ragnar.

So I give him the truth. “I dreamt of you.”

Björn looks at me as if he might argue and I must admit that, to this day, even I find it stupid. But that was what had happened. Then, as if admitting that there was no other answer that makes sense, he nods.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask me to elaborate. It would have been odd to explain that, while confined to my chambers in the palace, with golden chains binding me to the wall behind my bed, I had dreamt of raging seas and great snakes that would swallow anyone who step into the waters whole. That I had seen a hurricane coming. That the wind had whispered his name, that the seas had shown me his face.

And the Viking had arrived but mere days later.

Granted, that the first one to come into the room where I was held had been neither Björn nor his brother, but a bald man with his face covered in ink who had tried to rape me as soon as he saw me. Hvitserk and Björn had arrived in time to see me choke the man with my golden chains.

That was half the reason Hvitserk had started calling me hellcat. The other half of it was that I had spat at him when he came toward me too; all too aware that his intentions were as horrible as those of the man I had just killed.

He had stopped, though, when his brother’s name had left my lips.

And then, even if I couldn’t understand a word they said and they couldn’t understand a word I said, they had freed me, and I had helped them conquer the palace. No one had dared touch me after that, and Björn had given me a place on his ship.

“Of my sister,” he says at last. “Gyda. Your spirit reminded me of her.”

“But you have no sister.”

“She died,” he confirms.

I don’t need to ask who the girl’s mother was. I have been around the brothers long enough that I would have known if Aslaug had a daughter.

We don’t share another word after that.

 

* * *

 

 

The celebrations are like nothing I’d ever seen before, nothing I prepared myself for, and for all that I try I can’t begin to imagine how Christians can consider themselves righteous and curse the Vikings as pagans, not when, as the sun comes down and night falls upon us, the air itself seems to vibrate with energy, the stars to shine more brightly than the nights before, as if the Gods and Goddesses were staring down at Kattegat now, looking at these warrior, and blessing them. As if the Allfather had heard them hailing his name and had decided to gift them his undivided attention.

Björn had warned me of the sacrifice his mother would make, as if expecting me to be afraid of it or tell him I wanted to go home instead. Torvi had looked at him with a frown. Both of them had seen me murder the captain that’d killed my mother and his entire crew after all. But Björn did have a point: it was not the same to see a man poisoned as it was to see him bleed.

But I have also seen men bleed.

So I’d waved him off and dressed with the same attire I’d worn to Ubbe’s wedding, which is the prettiest thing I own. I’d done my own braids this time, and lined my eyes with kohl as if I’d been doing it for years. There had been no denying the approval in my host’s eyes when I was done getting ready, but still I’d done my best to ignore it.

I have been unsure of how to act around Björn ever since he told me of his sister, because I had felt it then, that he trusted me enough to share such a thing with me, even if we both knew he didn’t trust me completely. Because I know his confession means more than it seemed at first, that he feels the need to keep me safe because he wasn’t able to keep his sister safe. That with time, maybe, he would call me family.

It is something I can’t afford, not when I’m not sure I feel the same.

Especially after he proved he was still taking Torvi’s love for granted by disappearing during the sacrifice to meet his mother’s lover. I hadn’t noticed right away, of course, my eyes darting from the man being run through with a sword by Lagertha on the altar and the youngest son of Ragnar watching it all from the first line of the opposite crowd, the boat builder and his wife with him. To say that I’d been enchanted by the obvious pleasure decorating his pretty face would be an understatement, and while I was, and am, aware that there is no way this fixation can be sane; I had not dared to take my gaze away. Not until Ivar had looked my way at least, eyebrow raised in question when he caught me watching.

I had turned to Torvi, looking for something, anything, to distract me, only to find her staring at Lagertha, and to see Björn was gone. She had said nothing, but we both know where he had gone. And with whom.

Now I find myself walking up the path to the cottage of the sons of Ragnar, having left behind Hvitserk's wanton smirks and Ubbe's knowing gaze behind, still unsure of what exactly I intend to do, but certain that going back would be pointless at this point. I've come here looking for Ivar; I won't leave without seeing him.

I start regretting my decision as soon as I open the door though, because before I can see him, I hear him, groaning and telling me to go away, his words accompanied by several curses that mean he surely thinks I’m one of his brothers.

“To think I came all the way up here to see if you were alright.” Even as I close the door, I can _hear_ Ivar turning in bed, tensing at the sound of my voice. “I wouldn’t have bothered if I had known you were going to insult me.”

“Then get out.”

Fire is blazing on the hearth and even if the air in the room is thick and hot Ivar is covered in furs. When I open my moth to retort, as if seeing it and not wanting me to do so, Ivar sits on the bed, groaning again, and looks at me in the dim light.

“You are not good at doing what you are told, are you, Vassa?”

There’s an edge to his voice, I can hear it, feel it, and it tells me that whatever pain he is in has soured his mood, and this is no moment for games. But I have weathered his tantrums well enough in the past, and maybe I’m too drunk or too stupid but I say, “No, I’m terrible at it.” And I approach the bed.

His blue eyes shine dark under the light of the flames as he follows every single one of my movements, as he takes in my steps, my breathing. It reminds me of a mouse assessing a cat; of a wolf seizing down his prey. I’m not sure which of those scenarios I prefer. But I forget as I sit next to him and he answers.

“I am surprised that has not gotten you killed yet, you daft woman.”

Despite the insult, there’s a smile breaking its way across his face, and his shoulders drop as he relaxes. He’s not wearing a shirt and I can’t help but ogle at the strength of his arms, the definition of his chest, the power of his shoulders. It’s not until Ivar raises an eyebrow at me, face lined with confusion, that I force myself to look away.

“Ubbe said you were not feeling alright.” Never mind that it had been me who had asked.

I’d been drinking with Hvitserk and Ubbe while we watched Sigurd playing the lute when I had noticed the youngest brother was nowhere to be seen. Knowing Hvitserk would surely tease me about it until the point in which I would want to rip his head off, I had asked Ubbe about it.

“That is none of his business. None of yours, either.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes at him. Really, I do.

“Lay on your belly, I can help ease the pain.”

“No.” His answer is quick, his voice laced with something that I’m sure is not anger, but I can’t quite place.

Sighing I punch his arm, trying to make him move. Ivar’s eyes go from the frown on my face to his arm where I had hit him and, surprisingly, he laughs, shaking his head, as if wanting to tell me that there is no way I can win a fight against him and trying would be stupid. As if I don’t know.

My fist goes for his face and he stops it, face going from amused to angered in a split of a second, making me wonder again how it is possible for someone to feel so many things at one, for a mind to work that quickly.

He has me pinned against the mattress before I can even move to try and set myself free from his grasp. “You know you could not win.”

“Does that mean I should not try? That I should yield?”

“It would be the smart thing to do.”

Ivar’s breath is warm against my cheek and I’m suddenly aware of every inch of night between us.

“You have already stated that I am quite stupid, Ivar.” I risk smiling. “I thought you trusted me.”

He shakes his head again, his hold on my wrist tightening. “You only play at being stupid.” His words are but a whisper and I wouldn’t have heard him if we weren’t so close.

And then he lets go of me and lays next to me, face resting against the pillow, eyes not meeting my gaze, shoulders tensing at once. Smiling –to myself this time—I repress the urge to run my fingers through his hair. Not asking for permission and taking advantage of the situation would be unfair, and would do nothing good for our friendship. Or for whatever this is.

Ivar stops breathing when I straddle his lower back, my knees at either side of him, making sure not to press my weigh against him, and I bite back the words of reassurance fighting to make their way through my lips, knowing he would not welcome them nicely.

And then I start massaging him, hoping to relieve some of his pain.

I’m unsure for how long we stay like that, in silence safe for Ivar’s groans when I press on a particularly stressed muscle, but then I hear him letting out a breath, relaxing ever so slightly under my touch.

“Why are you here, Vassa, helping a cripple?”

Repressing the urge to tell him that he’s being childish for asking such a stupid thing, I say, “What should I be doing instead?”

Another moment of silence, and then…

“You seemed to be having fun with Hvitserk.”

I laugh without being able to help it, because of course Ivar would see the politeness with which I now treat his brother and think there is something else, find it threatening somehow. He was after all the one who had first warned me of all the things Hvitserk wanted to do to me, as if I hadn’t already known or expected it.

It takes me yet another moment to understand he’s waiting for an answer.

“I do not want to be with Hvitserk.”

Ivar chuckles as my fingers trace the lines of his back. “Good,” he mutters, nodding to himself.

Silence falls around us again and, after a while, his breath evens, softens, and I move away from him, not allowing myself to miss the warmth of his body under my own as soon as I lay next to him on the bed. Ivar’s eyes are closed, his face the very picture of serenity. I’m sure, alone with him in this room, in this moment, that such a face was the one the God of the Christians gifted his most beloved angel, before cursing him to an eternity in Hell.

When Ivar speaks again, he startles me. “Stay here.”

How long has it been since he has been so at peace? Since he has allowed himself to be at peace? How long has it been since I have let myself do the same?

“Where would I go?”

When he opens his eyes to look at me, I know he understand my meaning. That my words do not apply only to this night, to this day.

I’m the one to freeze now when he inches closer to me, face unreadable despite the myriads of different emotions I can see in his eyes. Despite the fact that his mind seems to be racing and racing and racing.

When he kisses me, a brief touch of his lips against mine, I’m expecting it, I’m ready for it. What I’m not ready for is the way he shivers against me, the softness in his eyes when he pulls back to look at me. So I raise my hand to his face before leaning in again to kiss him, to show him that whatever it is that he’s afraid of, he has no reason to be. He shudders with what might have been a sob.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ivar.”

This time, when _he_ kisses me, there’s no hesitation, and he sets every part of me aflame.


End file.
